


A Soupy Twist

by valderys



Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are always reasons for a breakdown - just ask Stephen Fry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Soupy Twist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Notatracer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Notatracer).



> This is perfectly stand alone, but I did write a sequel to it, which is [Stage Directions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/106415).

_"His name is Daniel," says Stephen, almost brusquely, and yet Hugh knows him well enough to hear the hint of affection, the surprised coquettishness, that Stephen is manfully trying to suppress._

Hugh smiles, grins widely in fact, and wonders when it will be all right to tease Stephen about - Daniel. Wonders when he will feel able to tease about such a phenomenon, without being either crass or cruel. Two emotions he fears will sit all too easily on his tongue at this precise moment.

Stephen takes a sip of his sherry, to hide his face, and Hugh thinks, yes, Stephen will see these things in Hugh, just as easily for their vocal suppression, for he knows Hugh in return just as well.

"His mother has reverted to her maiden name," says Stephen, while waving a hand, "I can only hope that the tabloids don't get hold of that too soon, as I feel referring to Daniel as my `Bit of Posch' will hardly be beyond them."

"No," agrees Hugh, and takes a sip of his own aperitif. "But better than re-hashing all that other stuff."

They stare at each other. Hugh wonders if crassness might be his metier after all. Perhaps the Cell Mates debacle shouldn't be referred to even so obliquely? He's too off-kilter to tell. Your best... friend trying to kill himself is not news anyone can hear with equanimity, and knowing, as Hugh does, the background, as it were...

"Daniel," says Stephen, with relish, and a gleam in his eye, "Ruts like a stallion, and cooks like a Cordon Bleu chef. He looks after me."

And Hugh realises that he **is**_ allowed to mention it, that Stephen appears to have forgiven him. He supposes Stephen's banter is not designed to hurt._

"I'm glad for you, you know," he says, and even tries to mean it. Stephen tips his glass in a salute, and his eyes twinkle.

Hugh does the same, because what else is he meant to do? He never expected Stephen to find someone. Stephen has always been there, dependable and wonderful, and **there**_. The rock around which the waters of his own mercurial nature flow and ebb._

Hugh never expected this, but it would be churlish to be angry. He has no right to be, let's face it. No right at all.

***

"For god's sake, Hugh, will you _calm down_," says Stephen, and brings his hands up, meaning to lie them on Hugh's shoulders. The man is as tense as a coiled spring, and Stephen's touch appears to be all it takes to set him off, although that isn't entirely surprising. Hugh flails widely, and Stephen ducks with the ease of long practice. His heart flutters and his hands sweat as he finally grabs on to Hugh, incongruously, and as usual he finds the inevitable reservoir of self-hate fill up a little more.

It doesn't stop him holding Hugh more firmly though, and despises himself, even as he knows its necessity.

"You slippery bastard - will you be still!" Stephen is hauled around the room a little as Hugh tries to escape, just for a few moments, just for a token protest. He's come angry to Stephen's flat, but at least he's come. It's as much for show as anything. Hugh's reluctance is an inevitability that is as common as the rather dreary London pigeon, or particularly tasteless white stilettos, or an appalling bottle of Pinot Grigio, done up to be something it's not.

Incongruous thoughts, but Stephen's used to them. Had them for years, after all. Place-holder thoughts as he's waited for Hugh. To calm down, to cheer up. To turn up. Waiting. He's done a lot of that.

Hugh's beginning to quieten. He still hasn't said anything, just silently rages. Stephen fears for the safety of the furniture, at such times, but he loves it. Truly loves it. Or loves Hugh, anyway, which comes down to the same thing, since this is all he has. He wonders what's set Hugh off this time. At least it's not a black dog day.

He has too many of his own to appreciate those.

Hugh is motionless in his arms now, his muscles lax, his chest heaving, and then, just as inevitably, Hugh turns in the embrace, as so many times before, and there... that's what Stephen's been waiting for.

Hugh is hot, as always, his energy febrile and intense, and pushy too, competitive in this as in everything else. Stephen pushes back, and they fall to the sofa, as hands grab, and clothes are pushed aside. It's undignified, Stephen muses, in the moments he lets himself think about it. The wet, messy gloriousness of it all, is also a little sordid. But that will never stop him. He will never. Stop.

They don't talk about it. They never have. But Hugh still seems to need it, and, god knows, Stephen craves it. Stephen assumes Jo doesn't know, but even in that he's guessing. It's unfathomable really, even in its predictability.

Hugh has large hands, a demanding mouth, and a cock that lists a little to the left. These are things that any best friend would know about the other, surely?

They share everything, as they always have. Since university, since the heady days of the Footlights, and Edinburgh, and the short rush to fame and fortune. Or something like that. Creativity leading to sex, what could be more natural?

They share nothing, as they always have. Emma and the other girlfriends; Jo. Hugh's buttoned up, and close-mouthed, and the happy family man. Stephen is the avuncular godfather, always alone. Celibate, don't you know? Happy to be so. Why wouldn't he be?

It doesn't matter. Because he has this. Hugh falling to pieces in his arms. The lightening quick banter and glorious outpouring of talent they have afterwards. He could say it's all he's ever wanted - clichés are clichés for a reason, after all. But no, he wanted - wants - more. On the other hand, he's also realistic.

Stephen loves arguing, loves debating. Perhaps that's why he's never allowed himself to win the argument for his self-respect.

***

"To m'colleague", Stephen always says, and then they finish the show with a dubious cocktail. But it's not been as comfortable this time around. The jokes seem a little more forced, the antics a touch too manic. He wonders what he can do about that.

Stephen's been having a go at more novels in the interim, or starting them anyway. Random doodlings, that get him up and writing at a decently early hour. It's a release, and a break - from the television studio, from the pace, and the hectic rehearsals, and the empty yawning space where laughter should be, and then the much too full studio, and the lights, and the people, and the...

Stephen thinks Hugh's been feeling his black dog bite more and more, his mood spiralling ever downwards. Jo's had a frown permanently etching a mark on her forehead when Stephen's seen her, seen the kids.

He does what he can, takes on the lion's share of the jokes, although he's also been feeling brittle, a hollow man. Eliot has a lot to answer for, frankly.

Stephen wonders when it's all going to break down. When the yellow light that signifies the storm will bleed through their souls, or, basically, when is it all going to turn to shit? It's going to happen. He can tell. They can all tell. It's just a question of timing.

He's anticipating the fallout, with quietly nervous exultation. Because Hugh will need a release. Eventually.

It's the last show, and it's gone well. Stephen's sweating inside his suit. Anxious to take it off, cool himself down - but he's jittery too, with adrenaline, with spent fear, the remains of nascent stage fright. It's been a good show, although Stephen is loath to call it excellent. He's not sure. He'll have to ask other opinions before entrenched self-doubt ends up kicking in - although he's never been as prone to that as Hugh.

So it's a curdled thing, his feelings upon finding Hugh in Stephen's own dressing room before him, still in costume, just like Stephen. There's already been too much that's nearly been said, or done, or tip-toed round. Stephen would almost like Hugh to get on with it - it's a dance he almost wishes he could shorten, get straight to the money shot, as they say, even as his mouth dries in anticipation, and his fingers tingle and turn cold.

So Stephen's prepared for Hugh turning to him when he shuts the door, an endlessly repeating Hugh in the glass mirrors, the bulbs bright along their edges. His hands are reaching to draw Hugh in, it's so familiar, and Stephen wants to laugh, as he always does, at the bittersweet joy he feels at the privilege. He misses Hugh so much all the times they are only friends.

Until Hugh, even as Stephen smells the sour-sweet scent of him, straight from the studio, as he allows himself to be folded into an embrace, even as Stephen braces himself for one of Hugh's uniquely physical displays of affection, freezes into place. Becomes a statue of a living man, such as a Rodin or Michelangelo's David. Rhapsodies that Stephen thinks will amuse Hugh, perhaps, sometime, if once they ever talk about such things.

But without even a shove, or a blow, Hugh pushes Stephen away.

"I can't," says Hugh, "Not any more. I mustn't. I thought I should tell you."

And Stephen never thought it would end like this - without a bang of any kind. Without much of a whimper. He, of course, should do the whimpering, shouldn't he? In this sketch? Isn't that the appropriate thing to do? The terribly amusing thing?

"Ah," Stephen says, feeling his intellect deserting him by the second, drowning in a sort of sick sensation, that begins, as these things tend to do, in the stomach. "And I suppose there's nothing I could say to change your mind? Although, of course, no-one says such a thing unless they're absolutely certain."

He pauses but Hugh only stares, and Stephen wonders why he wants to make this easy for Hugh. He really shouldn't. He should be hurling abuse, surely? Or at the very least barbs of biting wit.

"You could pretend, couldn't you? Briefly, as a parting gift. Pretend there was something I could say or do?"

Not his best effort, certainly.

Hugh runs his hands through his hair, until it sticks up more ridiculously than usual.

"No, but..." Hugh stares wildly, and Stephen realises that Hugh is in the blackest of dog days, is amazed all over again at his professionalism, despairs of any kind of reasoned argument.

"It's not an easy thing, you know," says Hugh, "None of it has been easy. Not one bit. And I just can't be torn to bits any more."

Buck up, Stephen wants to say, it's not so hard. I've been doing it for years.

But he refrains, and Hugh moves towards the door. As Stephen watches his familiar form getting smaller in the mirror, he wonders vaguely if Hugh will be like Alice, shrinking down to nothing. He wonders if he himself will do the same.

He's an odd shape, is Hugh, with his mismatched ears, and gangly body, and overly high forehead. And yet he fits. He's been in Stephen's life so long. Everyone else is somehow... smaller.

There is the soft click of the door closing.

In a fleeting manner, Stephen already misses the soft spot just behind Hugh's ear. It smells of youth, of the silver dazzle from the Cam, of crowding ten to a flat in the Scottish heat.

The phone rings, and Stephen picks it up, vaguely thinking Hugh's forgotten something.

"Hello? Stephen?" the voice is cheerful, and shattering, in that it is patently not Hugh. Stephen mumbles something, as he recognises his agent. "Got a proposal for you, for your next project. It's a play by Simon Gray, called Cell Mates - it's about Russian spies. A two-hander. Lots of word play in a grim setting - might be you and Hugh's cup of tea. Shall I have them send you the script?"

He wants to say no, he wants to, but he doesn't. He doesn't know what he does say however, but when he looks again, he's put the phone down.

It's funny. It's odd. Stephen would do anything for Hugh - surely he must know that? And yet it's still been thrown back in his face. Such is the perennial problem of unwanted gifts. He wonders how much he'd be worth if he was traded in back at the shop? One performer, somewhat used.

He thinks, on the whole, that he preferred it when he and Hugh didn't talk about such things. But he knows that it's real, or nothing would have been said at all.

He rather wishes that he didn't.

***

_And it couldn't be said that he fled to the States _ **exactly** _, but it is certainly true that he spends rather more than half his life there now._

There are lots of good arguments for that. Hollywood is where the work is, although it's not like work in the Old Country had exactly dried up. He wants to stretch himself as an actor, which could very well be true, except that the roles he's had until now haven't exactly been all that stretching. He claims loudly that he misses his family, but frankly, he could spend more time with them. If he tried.

The truth is, it's likely that he is hiding on a different continent. Which is ridiculous. It's possible - only possible, mind you - that as a pretty method-y actor when he wants to be, that he might be trying to subsume himself in a series of different characters. Different people who haven't fucked up as monumentally as he has.

It's possible that what he thought would make him feel better, really hasn't. And that he misses certain things. Certain... people.

It's possible he's been lying to himself all along.

It's also extremely bloody likely that he's missed his chance. Missed it long ago. Fucked it up. Given it the old heave-ho.

Still, there's nothing like feeling yourself embodying a curmudgeonly, misanthropic bastard with only one true friend in all the world to bring it home with a vengeance, is there?

Although, it's not like they haven't talked, over the years? They've even presented the odd thing together. They both put on a bloody good show, and it's not even a lie.

There's even been the occasional Christmas with the families, although they both got thoroughly tight for that.

Still...

His hand shakes as he picks up the phone and types the number, knowing he's compromised, even with something that simple. The number's not on speed-dial, but he's got it memorised. And is that fucking pathetic? He believes it is.

"Umm. Stephen - hello. It's Hugh."

He waits, and Stephen trots out all the `How are you?'s and `How is the family?'s, in that sincere and superior way he has. Hugh finds his lips are curving into a smile.

Eventually, Hugh can't put it off any longer. "Look. There's something I wanted to ask you."

The line is bad, he wonders if Stephen will be able to hear him. He wonders if he should ring off, perhaps ring back later using Skype or something more reliable. He wonders if he can be any more of a coward?

"They might be giving me this award, you see. Just perhaps. And it would be lovely to have a... friend or two from home with me at the ceremony, and I know the wine and grub will be rather good, and I was sort of hoping..."

God, could he be any more artificially coy?

"Look, Stephen," Hugh pauses, wondering what he can say, what could possibly be effective after all this time. Although, it's possible the truth would be the only fair thing to offer at this point.

"I need you. Would you please come?" asks Hugh.

There's a pause, and as he waits, flights of angels have the chance to sing princes to their rest.

"Yes," says Stephen, "Oui. Da and si, and even dear old etiam. Of course."

The line goes dead.

It rings again in a very few seconds, and Hugh's heart has not stopped its thumping.

"You didn't have to beg," says Stephen, and Hugh does the only thing he can.

He laughs.__


End file.
